


Against All Odds

by knights-and-musketeers (periken)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Nightmares, Pain, Whump, praying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7704490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periken/pseuds/knights-and-musketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When our four Musketeers are ambushed by a group of dissidents while on their way to Chartres to retrieve some provisions, they are put in a difficult situation where their actions may determine the fate of one of their brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Countdown

_"Never let the odds keep you from doing what you know in your heart you were meant to do." - H. Jackson Brown, Jr._

\----------

Aramis freezes. 

Everything that revolves around him moves in slow motion as if time itself is coming to a halt. A grey vignette emerges from the corners of his vision, pushing the focus on his brother in the distance. The clang of steel on steel and the sounds of muskets going off melt away from the world, leaving nothing but the accentuating cry of agony from Porthos. 

His face construes into one of horror as he watches his brother topple limply to the ground, unmoving. Being fueled purely by desperation, he charges; his sword moves on its own accord as if it had a mind of its own, slashing and parrying through the group of dissidents who get in his way, desperate to reach the large musketeer. 

His heart lodges into his throat at the sight before him after clearing out his path of enemies. Porthos is on his knees, held up by a big man behind him with a musket pointed to his head. The man is tall, dressed in black with a bandana covering his lower face along with a tilted cavalier hat that masks his eyes. Accompanying him are two of his comrades, stationed out front on either sides of him like bodyguards -  both with pistols aimed at Aramis and his brothers who have now joined him by his side. 

"Drop your weapons or I will shoot this musketeer where he kneels," the leader commands. 

Aramis furrows his brows in anger and worry, causing wrinkles to appear on his forehead. His shoulders tense as his fingers clench tightly around the rapier's handle, the colour of his knuckles matching that of the snow. The pounding in his heart is rapid and fierce, the vibration reverberating through his whole body. 

Aramis' frustration on the ordeal immediately clouds his mind, but it isn't until he registers the sight of Porthos' state that he almost loses all control of his emotions.

Porthos is leaning heavily, favouring his right side due to the musket ball embedded in his left thigh where crimson blood slowly soaks through his breeches. The only support preventing him from falling over is the man's firm grip in his hair. A trail of blood trickles down the side of his face from a small gash above his right brow, painting the snow with drops of red. He gasps to get air into his lungs, evident from the large frozen puffs that escape his lips. A field of anguish is plastered across his face, the wound taking its toll with waves of constant pain shooting through his body. Despite the distress, he manages to keep a steady gaze upon them through glassy eyes.

White hot rage disperses through Aramis like venom. His eyes become a crosshair, targeting the enemy and ready to eliminate the man in a flash. His body aches with desperation to take action, the building mixture of frustration and anger itching to burst out all at once. He can't just stand by and watch the dissident treat Porthos like a puppet, using him to manipulate them to conform to his every demand.

As he's ready to throw himself at the man, a gentle whisper from Athos saying 'don't' stops him from continuing forth. He glances angrily at the lieutenant who's giving him a warning glare, clearly knowing what he intends on doing. 

He can't help it. His emotions are already out of control and they're commanding his body to do something. Anything. 

Athos scowls quietly, urging him to hold back for now. Aramis' course of action is usually contrary to what Athos tells him to do, but a constant nagging thought that has managed to break its way through his emotions told the marksman to obey his lieutenant for once. The strength it takes for him to restrain himself is beyond difficult as he forces his eager legs to plant themselves firmly on the ground so they don't burst into a full sprint at the man. He closes his eyes briefly and sucks in a deep breath, barely managing to suppress the fury that threatens to escape.

D'Artagnan stares daggers at the enemies, teeth bared into a vicious snarl while clutching his grazed left arm. Athos' expression is blank, but behind that neutral mask is a layer laced with concern and fear. This may have been indecipherable to anyone else, but not to Aramis or his brothers. 

The older musketeer straightens his posture and speaks in a strong, calm voice. 

"Sir, put the gun down. I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers. Let's talk about this like gentlemen." 

The dissident pulls his bandana down from over top his face and scoffs, almost breaking into a laugh. "There's nothing to discuss. I suggest you all be good little musketeers and cooperate if you don't want to see me blow your friend's brains out," the man prompts, his mouth curling into one of mischief. "Now drop your weapons or I won't hesitate to fire." He jerks his chin towards the musketeers. 

Initially, none of them move a muscle. The three musketeers exchange glances, their faces grim knowing that they must comply, having been cornered into an impasse. Aramis' bites on his bottom lip so hard that it nearly bleeds. He's trying his best to keep his body chained from making any impulsive movement yet he can't stand to render himself unarmed.

All they can do is stall time as much as possible until they can find an opportunity. With no other choice, Athos and D'Artagnan start unfurling their fingers from their sword as Aramis grips his tighter.

The bandit snarls at the slow response to his demands. "I'm not a patient man. Drop your weapons or I will shoot," digging the pistol deeper into Porthos' skull. 

Athos mutters Aramis' name, having noticed the tightening of his fingers around the handle. 

The marksman keeps his gaze fixed on the lead man in front, contemplating in what way he should kill the man once he gets his hands on him. The clouded emotions cease to disperse and continue to remain untamed, but his heart tugs at the hint of rationality left in him to consider the consequences of an abrupt outburst. A reckless attempt will cost Porthos his life and Aramis wouldn't be able to live another day knowing his thoughtless actions caused that outcome. If there is any way to save Porthos, they must wait for or create an opportunity that won't cause him any harm. 

Aramis loosens his grip - with forcible reluctance - and thrusts the sword onto the snow along with Athos and D'Artagnan as a signal of surrender. 

A smirk climbs its way onto the bandit's face as he nods in delight. "Good, good. It seems you're capable of listening to instructions. Now slowly drop the muskets," he pauses and glares at them sternly. "And no funny business."

"This isn't the way to go about it. Let our friend go," D'Artagnan prompts with a vicious scowl. 

"I will give you five seconds to drop your pistols," the leader commands while pushing the barrel of his musket even harder against Porthos' head. 

Aramis bites his tongue to keep down an insult from escaping his lips. They slowly reach for their pistols, making sure not to make any sudden movements that would give the man a reason to shoot. 

Lifting the firearm so it's pointed upwards, their fingers slowly start uncurling from the weapon, but not intending on dropping it yet. 

The marksman's eyes skim his surroundings, trying to see if there is any probability of gaining the upper hand. With nothing but trees within their surroundings, he curses under his breath at the lack of leverage.

"Five."

Aramis' eyes land on Porthos when he catches him staring at them with an odd, coaxing intensity through his weary eyes. The gaze confuses him and he studies it inquisitively for its meaning. Porthos must have seen his examination because that's when he catches the brief glance his brother shoots towards his own right boot. Porthos' hand can be seen slowly inching towards it. 

The medic shares a worried glance with Athos and D'Artagnan who have also noticed, all having the same concerned thought in mind as they know exactly what Porthos plans on doing.  

Aramis wants to shout 'no' at Porthos, for the intended act is a very dangerous and risky one. So much is at stake and the chances of accomplishment are slim to none. Without precise timing, there is no way this will succeed. It's clear that Athos believes the same as wrinkles appear from the corner of his eyes and on his forehead. Aramis disagrees with Porthos' plan to a great extent. The given opportunity he's providing is something the medic cannot bare to see if it fails. But this is their only chance as there may not be another. Despite the meager odds, there is always a sliver of hope. To utilize that hope, they must prepare themselves if they are to make this work. 

Athos lowers his chin as a return signal to Porthos that they understand his intentions while Aramis whispers a prayer to God for Him to be on their side as the man continues to count.

"Four."  
  
  


_Oh, glorious Almighty God_

_Please assist us,_

_in this time of great devastation_

_and fulfill this mere opportunity_

_that has been presented._  
  
  


_I implore thee,_

_not to take our Porthos away._  
  
  


_For this, I promise thee,_

_I will forever be in thy debt_

_and I will never cease_

_to honour thy glory._

_Amen._  
  
  


"Three"

"Don't do this... Have you no honour?" Athos exclaims, trying to keep the man's attention directed at him. 

Aramis glances at Porthos subtly and sees his hand has already climbed into his boot and is re-emerging from the brim with his fingers wrapped around the pommel. His movements are sluggish, the injury clearly affecting him greatly as he grits his teeth to prevent making any noise that will attract attention. 

Under the brim of the dissident's hat a large grin can be seen spreading across his face, showing how he thoroughly enjoys the sight of desperation and begging that comes from the soldiers. "You think I care about your code of honour? I do what is necessary," he scoffs before continuing on with the countdown.

"Two."

"This is necessary?! Cold blooded murder?" Athos yells, his mask of neutrality slips away, letting the fear and desperation escape. 

Porthos has re-adjusted his fingers from the pommel to the handle, grasping it tightly between his palm as the dagger slides further out of the boot, exposing the cross guard and half of the blade. 

Aramis prepares himself mentally, trying to push his emotions down long enough that it won't disrupt his concentration for what's to come. He takes a deep breath to calm his pounding heart as this move will make the difference between life and death. 

"One." 

The timer is coming to an end and Aramis' stomach drops when Porthos halts his withdrawal of the dagger. 

 _Porthos can't go on any further. The plan isn't going to work,_ Aramis thought. 

The marksman can't take it anymore. He can't watch his brother die in front of him like this. He has to do something.  _Now._

Preparing to whip his musket at the bandit's head, Porthos slowly lifts his head and glares at them, causing him to stop his impulse. His eyes are dull and large puffs of smoke emerges from his mouth, gasping for air as he fights for concentration. Porthos' lips curl into a slight smile and nods.

"Time's up."

\----------

_Everything happens so quickly._

_One second he's up._

_And the next he's down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Leave a comment and let me know your thoughts!


	2. The Aftermath

Shots ring out through the forest and Aramis freezes at the sound. With his arm still outstretched and musket in hand, he sees Porthos' limp body fall into the snow, still and unmoving. Everything blurs around him. Nothing matters to him anymore as he stares in abject horror at his fallen brother. Anger flares up in his mind and he directs his glare at the man currently shouting in pain on the ground, hands holding the wound on his calf from Porthos' dagger.

He takes notice of the dissident's dead comrades, coming to the conclusion that Athos and D'Artagnan must have shot them and immediately sprints to the leader while scooping up his sword along the way. Athos and D'Artagnan urgently race to Porthos' side, moving him away from the enemy.

The bandit grips his leg in pain with one hand while desperately attempting to reach his dropped musket with the other. Aramis steps on the outstretched hand then kicks the pistol away with the other. He punts him in the face, receiving a large groan from the man as he lands flat on his back.

"Stop, please! Don't kill me!" the man exclaims, raising a shaky hand up; the tough demeanor from earlier having diminished and replaced with weakness.

The marksman's expression is dark, a raging fire of ire shines in his eyes from the deep hatred for this bandit. He stalks around the man like a predator surrounding its prey, approaching him slowly before pulling the dagger out of the bandit's calf in one swift move, bringing about a howling scream that pierces the silent forest. The man pants heavily and cranes his head up to Aramis, his eyes silently beseeching for clemency.

"Please! Have mercy!" the dissident pleads, eyes on the verge of tears. "I didn't mean any harm," he laughs nervously, attempting to redeem his actions in hopes of being granted redemption.

"Mercy? You ask me for mercy?" Aramis scoffs with raised brows as he presses his boot onto the man's injury which elicits another loud cry of pain. He directs his sword to the edge of the man's neck.

"I've killed many men in my time as a Musketeer. So many that I've lost count, but it's all to protect France. I don't kill unless it's necessary," Aramis guides his rapier to the man's chest, mere inches away from his heart.

"But you? Oh you're a special one, mon cher. You have crossed a threshold that you'll wish you didn't," he moves his boot from the injured leg onto the man's chest and leans down enough that his breath blows past the bandit's face with the previously used bloody dagger in hand and pressed to his cheek.

"No one hurts my brothers and receives impunity," he snarls deeply, pushing the main gauche until it draws blood and a whimper comes from the man's throat.

"No. One," he emphasizes the two words with a deadly, loud growl. He gets up from his crouched position and towers over his enemy. The man has his bloody hands up in surrender, copiously pleading Aramis to spare his life.

"Begging to me won't help," the marksman states as he lifts his sword - point down - above the man's chest. "You may beg for mercy from God, but you'll certainly not get any from me."

A half-choked cry is heard before the rapier pierces through the man's heart. His body goes lax and a bloom of red seeps and spreads into the snow. Aramis stares stone-faced at the bandit's lifeless body, whose eyes are fixed wide with fear and mouth agape. He has nothing more to say to the dead man. No prayers. Nothing.

He extracts his sword from the man's chest and spins on his heels, quickly running towards his brothers.

\----------

Athos has half of Porthos' body resting in his lap with arms wrapped around him tightly, doing his best to keep the shivering musketeer warm along with two of their blue cloaks draped over his brother's body. Aramis kneels down to check on Porthos' condition. His complexion has turned pale and his lips are colouring into a dim shade of blue. "Is... is he. . ." Aramis stutters, hoping his fears aren't true.

"He's still conscious, but I fear not for much longer," Athos' voice quivers as he starts to feel the coldness breach through his doublet.

Aramis lets out a breath of relief, a heavy weight having been lifted off his shoulders knowing that his brother is alive. He looks to Porthos, now noticing the consistent puffs of smoke billowing through his chattering teeth as he takes quick heavy breaths. Aramis scans his eyes down to Porthos' thigh to see Athos' scarf tied around it just above the wound. He pulls off his blue sash and ties it on top of the injury to protect it from contracting an infection. D'Artagnan is tethering the large musketeer's horse to his own, taking many glances of concern while he works.

"We need to get him somewhere safe quick so I can tend to his wounds," Aramis exclaims, darting a glance between his comrades as he adds his cloak onto Porthos.

"There's a village named Rambouillet up ahead," Athos remarks, tilting his head north. "It's not far."

The medic nods as they slowly lift their brother. It takes all three men to get Porthos safely onto the saddle without inflicting anymore pain.

"It 'ursss..." Porthos mumbles as they ride for Rambouillet. Aramis clasps Porthos' body even closer to his own and whispers reassuringly.

"I know, Porthos. We're almost there. Just hang on for a little longer, alright?" The large musketeer grunts weakly in response before his chin slowly droops to his chest as he mutters something inaudible.

Aramis' breath hitches at his brother's body going slack causing his heart to beat in rhythm with the steed's gallop. "Stay with me. Don't you dare give out on me now!" he calls out, heeling his horse in desperation to move even faster, hoping it's not too late.

 

**At the Mercure Relays du Château in Rambouillet:**

Aramis is nearly shouting at the frightened innkeeper to provide them with a room quickly as they haul Porthos through the tavern of the inn. She nods briskly, complying with his demands without any complaints as she has no means to anger him any further after observing the state his friend is in. The woman ushers the Musketeers to a vacant room as murmurs are heard amongst the occupants in the bar whose eyes follow the men rushing to the quarter.

They gently lie Porthos onto the bed, taking added caution for his leg and making sure it's stretched out straight. Blankets are wrapped around his chest and the hearth is lit by the bedside to provide him extra warmth. Porthos' head tosses and turns, moaning in pain as he mutters indecipherable words to no one in particular. The marksman let his shoulders droop from the relief of the musketeer's consciousness after the devastating scare that almost made him breathless earlier. He pats Porthos' chest gently, whispering reassuring words to his ear.

"It's okay, Porthos. You're safe now. We'll take care of you."

His heart wrenches into knots at the agonizing sight of his brother. The large musketeer's face is contorted in pain with knit brows, jaws tense, and sweat gleaming across his forehead. His fists are clenched together tightly from the mix of burning pain extending from his thigh and the cold shivering of his body. Aramis places a hand onto his cheek and it's shockingly warm causing him to frown with worry as a fever means an infection will be present - or most likely follow.

The medic composes himself and suppresses all his cluttered amalgamation of angry thoughts and emotions. So much is running through his mind. So many things he wants to say. But allowing his feelings to fester will interfere with his concentration in tending Porthos, who's life is still in danger.

"He has a fever and it's likely that the wound is infected," he says, trying to sound calm as his heart pounds with fear. "D'Artagnan, please get my kit, clean cloths, a bowl of water, and bandages," Aramis commands as he removes his doublet and sheds his belt of weapons.

The Gascon scurries to Aramis' satchel and hands him the kit. As he heads for the door to retrieve clean towels, a few light knocks are heard. The innkeeper and another woman stand at the entrance carrying a bowl of water, pile of cloths, bandages, blankets, and a bottle of brandy.

"We've brought some medical supplies for you, monsieurs," the woman says with a gentle smile as she hands them over to Athos and D'Artagnan.

"Thank you very much, mademoiselles...?" the lieutenant inquires.

"Elizabeth," the innkeeper replies. "And this is Eleanor," pointing to the younger woman. "Please don't be afraid to ask if you need any assistance," she offers.

"Thanks again. We appreciate the concern, Mademoiselle Elizabeth and Eleanor," Athos responds with a gracious nod.

The brothers help undress Porthos, taking off his boots and doublet before re-covering his upper body with extra blankets. Aramis turns his attention to the gash above the large musketeer's brow first, scrubbing away the dried blood with a warm, wet cloth and sighing in relief to see that the cut does not require stitches. He applies a dressing and bandages the wound before the Gascon wets a towel and sets it onto Porthos' forehead to abate the heat of the fever.

Athos helps Aramis untie the scarf and sash around Porthos' thigh, its original colours now indecipherable. The lieutenant frowns from the loss of his scarf as he holds it up, gazing at it for a brisk moment of grief before tossing it aside. D'Artagnan couldn't help but giggle at the amusing disappointment on Athos' face in which he receives a menacing glare for.

The medic carefully cuts at the fabric of his trousers - seeing it as a lost cause at this point - around the wound and pulls the piece away where blood still sticks to it. He breathes in sharply at the state of Porthos' thigh. The point of entry of the ball is caked in dark red blotches of dried and wet blood as little traces of red still seep from the wound. It's difficult for him to see the hole and assess what condition it's in. A twisted pang of deep fear gnaws at him at what he may - or may not - find.

"We'll need to clean the wound first before I can get a closer look at it," he defines when a bottle of brandy is promptly nudged against his arm by Athos, who seems to have already taken a few sips from the flask. The medic rolls his eyes at the lieutenant's constant thirst for alcohol and he tilts his chin to his two brothers. "Hold Porthos secure. This is going to sting."

Athos places a hand over each of the man's shoulders as D'Artagnan holds down his calfs.

"Are you ready, Porthos?"

Still semi-conscious, he gives a delayed grunt and nods with eyes closed tightly.

Aramis dips his head in preparation and places a towel between Porthos' teeth, using it as a gag to suppress the scream, before he pours the liquid over the lesion.

A muffled cry of agony echoes throughout the room as strong hands keep him in place when his shoulders lurch forward, trying to fight Athos' grip while his knees instinctively try to bend up, causing his heels to dig into the bed. Wrinkles form on the bed sheets, fissuring wildly from his fingers which grip the fabric tightly. The scream subsides as Porthos' body goes lax, causing the young Gascon to tense up and gasp in fear.

A check of his eye confirms the medic's equal worry. "It's alright. He merely passed out," he assures with a raised hand and D'Artagnan lets out a deep breath as he relaxes his shoulders.

"It's best that he's out. He never handles it well when awake," the lieutenant comments, removing the towel from the musketeer's mouth.

Aramis retrieves a damp towel and works on cleaning away the dried layer of blood with the help of the brandy. His tanned skin starts coming into a clearer view underneath and the medic lets his expression relax a little when a glimpse of the head of the circular ball is revealed. The visibility of the ball is an indication that it didn't lodge itself deep inside meaning no internal surgery is required for it to be removed. The skin surrounding the hill of the ball isn't doing so well as the edges are jagged and red, along with a ring of swelling.

"How bad is it?" the Gascon inquires, craning over to get a glance at the wound.

"There's no exit wound and the ball is still in there. Luckily, we can see it, but I will need to make a small incision to be able to extract it," the medic explains. "That needs to be done first before I can relieve the swelling and stitch it up," he finishes, rifling through his kit for a slicing tool, a pair of forceps, and a retractor.

"I'll go retrieve a poultice from Elizabeth while you work," Athos gets up from his lean and vacates the room.

Once the patient has been prepared, Aramis shuts his eyes and concentrates, taking in deep breaths to stop the trembling in his hands. Precision is key. He can't afford to mess up this procedure as any wrong move could lodge the ball even deeper in. After taking one, last long breath, he opens his eyes and hovers over Porthos' thigh, carefully making a small incision perpendicular to the ball - just enough to insert the retractor between the skin and the bullet. Keeping his movements slow, he sticks the retractor into the created gap and pushes it in until he can feel the hook of the tool reach the edge of the ball. With a small twist of his wrist, he adjusts the hook so the sharp end touches the bottom of the circular sphere and gently pulls up until a third of the ball is visible.

After delicately maneuvering the retractor out, he huffs a sigh of relief from the completion of step one. He wipes his forearm across his sweaty forehead and takes a few more calming breaths before proceeding with the next step.

D'Artagnan - who is currently the medic's little assistant - hands him the forceps as he did earlier with the retractor. Aramis focuses on positioning the instrument around the ball, digging the tool against his skin to try and clamp as much of the sphere as possible. Once satisfied with his grip, he pulls back at an incredibly slow speed, revealing the bullet little by little and re-adjusting his hold every so often to keep his hold firm. As the circular object is withdrawing from its crater, a squelching sound is made from the rubbing contact with the skin, causing the young musketeer to grit his teeth at the unpleasant noise.

Aramis gives a large sigh from the successful procedure and twists the forcep left and right in his hand, squinting to examine the ball. Finding no signs of the sphere having broken, he throws the ball onto the ground with a light thud before leaning in to get a clearer look at the small pit in the thigh, making sure nothing has been missed.

D'Artagnan is on the edge of his seat as a tense silence ensues when the medic doesn't utter a word during his period of observation. Aramis moves away and backs into his chair, prompting the young musketeer to ask for a status report. "He's fine. All that's left is for me to stitch up the wound," Aramis replies and the Gascon lets his stiff body sag from hearing the spoken words.

Not a moment later, Athos walks in with a poultice in hand. He gives Aramis a nudge and passes it over. Aramis gives a nod of thanks then applies the poultice onto the wound and bandages it nicely before sitting back down again. He stares at Porthos' still body as the emotions and thoughts that he had subdued before the ministration process begin to resurface.

"He'll be fine. He's been through worse and has always pulled through," Athos assures in a calm voice, squeezing his shoulder gently.

The medic remains quiet, his mind once again ruminating. One side of his mind is concerned for Porthos' well-being, despite knowing that Athos is right and he'll trudge his way through the injury like he always does, but the other side is brimming with an amalgamation of anger and fear. The terror originates from almost losing Porthos; an experience that scared him beyond anything he's ever faced, but his ire derives from the fact that Porthos had put himself in the line of sacrifice even against such slim odds, willing to trade his life for theirs.

"We know what you're thinking, Aramis," comes the voice of the young Gascon behind him.

"It scared us all," the lieutenant adds.

Aramis doesn't respond, still watching Porthos through emotional eyes. "There could have been another way..." the medic mutters in dismay. He averts his head as memories of the way Porthos looked unable to continue on as his life swings on the edge of death flashed through his mind. He blinks a few times to shake away the haunting images.

Athos gestures to D'Artagnan, tilting his head towards the door. The young Gascon nods in understanding and takes a last glance at Porthos before quietly exiting the room with Athos to give Aramis some space and leave him to his personal thoughts.

\----------

Aramis watches the wax drip down the length of the candlestick as the flame continues to burn brightly, just like his ire.

"You almost got yourself killed out there," he mumbles, keeping his gaze on the candle.

Thoughts of frustration and anger race through his mind as he unknowingly fiddles roughly with the hem of his shirt. He's infuriated with Porthos for gambling his own life like that, risking himself on the slimmest chance of success. It's by God's miracle that the plan worked. Without God and luck on their side, the plan could have diverged in so many directions. All the possibilities resulting in failure lists itself in his mind: Their muskets could have misfired. Their reflexes may not have been quick enough compared to the enemy. The man could have noticed Porthos' intentions and pulled the trigger immediately. Porthos could have missed his target. The only course that is certain with these likelihoods is they all end with Porthos' death.

He lets out a small growl. "How could you do something like that? Doesn't your life matter?" he asks in vexation - knowing no reply will come - as he works on wiping him down with a damp cloth.

He knows the large musketeer has always put the safety of his brother's lives before his own and the three of them would gladly do the same. But what he witnessed today has been the closest brush with death. He felt as if he couldn't breath when he saw the way his brother swayed on his knees, life draining away as a timer counted down to his death.

If the man had successfully killed Porthos, he'd be hitting two birds with one stone.

Life would have no meaning to him anymore.

Not if Porthos is gone...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The Mercure Relays du Château is a hotel that is still in service today. Its origin dates back to the 16th century.
> 
> I want to thank all those who have come to read my first multi-chapter story so far! It really means a lot to me whether you left a kudo, a comment or just simply read it. Thank you very much and I hope this story continues to keep you interested. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Leave a comment and let me know your thoughts!


	3. To Protect

Athos takes a sip of wine as he watches Eleanor disappear down the hall after having bandaged the young Gascon's grazed arm. His eyes scan across the inn's tavern, noting the bar maid winding from table to table, bringing the scatter of men their meals and drinks. The bar tender situates himself at one of the many empty tables as there is no need to stay behind the bar counter due to the lack of patrons.

The patterned thumping sound of wood causes the lieutenant to turn his attention to the source. D'Artagnan paces around while chewing on his bottom lip, his face written with frustration and concern.

"Stop pacing. It's not going to help and the sound is annoying," Athos says in vexation as he takes another swig.

D'Artagnan promptly spins on his heels and glares at him with a look of disgust across his face. "How can you be so calm and drinking after what happened earlier today?!" he exclaims, his steps heavy as he walks towards him.

Athos pauses - mid drink - the flask horizontal in his hand as he gazes at him over the edge of his bottle. He brings the bottle back down, removing his lips from the brim to speak.

"I'm clear as to what occurred and understand Porthos' actions," he replies, swirling the contents of his drink. "If he didn't do it, we would have had no chance."

D'Artagnan frowns, becoming even more infuriated from Athos' cold reply. "Even if what he did could have gotten himself killed?" the young Gascon quickly growls, raising his voice in frustration, causing some heads to turn towards the musketeer.

"You know why he did it," Athos simply states.

D'Artagnan grows quiet. He knows what Porthos' intentions were behind those actions, but it doesn't make it any easier for the Gascon to accept.

Resigning himself from the argument, he scowls under his breath before dragging his body over to a chair and settling himself in while cradling his injured arm, sulking about the situation.

Athos plunks the bottle down onto the counter and gazes at the liquid sloshing about inside from the heavy set. He didn't fail to notice the scrunch of Aramis' brows, the angry frown, and fists clenched in his lap when they left.

He understands Aramis' reasoning of anger towards Porthos. The large musketeer's plan was a gamble and they all knew. It was clear that Aramis hated his strategy and so did he himself, but knowing Porthos, he's stubborn when it comes to giving up. Even in the most dire situations, he won't go down without a fight and is willing to die for those he loves. Aramis is just as obstinate. He will go through anything to save the people whom he holds dear, no matter how reckless and dangerous.

Aramis' intentions to attack was not overlooked by Athos. It wasn't easy for Aramis to simply stand by and watch helplessly as the enemy toyed with him. It was difficult for all of them, but restraint was needed to prevent the marksman in doing something imprudent. The situation at hand was simply too dangerous for them to do anything impromptu. The glimmer of opportunity presented had to be performed with precision. One wrong move could have costed a life - or lives.

"There's been a lot of trouble around the Forest of Rambouillet these days," Athos turns to the voice as Elizabeth comes down the hallway with a stack of bowls in hand. "I'm not surprised to see another wounded person come here. We've been getting lots of injured travelers arriving, saying they were ambushed by a group of men while passing through the area." Athos offers a hand to help take the pile from her as she struggles to keep them from toppling and she gives a gentle smile in thanks.

"What did these group of men look like?" he inquires as he places them down, his interest having peaked at the mentioning of the attacks.

She ponders for a moment before responding. "From what I've heard, they all dressed in black and had their lower faces covered," the woman gestures with a hand circling around her mouth.

He runs his fingers down his beard as he confirms his suspicions of the men.

"I recall some of the injured mentioning that they've heard talks from the enemies about collecting provisions of some sort," the innkeeper adds.

Stillness filters into their conversation, dividing them from the surprisingly noisy men that are sparsely scattered around the tavern as Athos muses over the new information, piecing together the connection of the ambushes with their mission. His face shows no signs of concentration or contemplation of thought, but the cogs turning in his mind says otherwise.

"Those men have stationed themselves in the forest so no one can reach Chartres," he states, breaking the silence between them.

"Why Chartres? And how do you know?" a voice from behind inquires. He turns to face the young Gascon who has silently invited himself into the conversation.

"I believe these men discovered the provisions the King has stored in Chartres and seized the area as their own," Athos hypothesizes. "There are many still-standing barracks in that village leftover from the Siege of Chartres after the Huguenots failed to capture the town. I presume they saw it as a good location to settle in and keep their supplies since the only path between Paris and Chartres is through the Forest of Rambouillet..."

"...And the forest serves as a perfect vantage point to ensure no one gets past them and interfere with their plans in Chartres." the Gascon finishes.

"Precisely," the lieutenant nods. "It was no accident that we stumbled upon them. It was all planned."

\----------

A soft knock on the door startles Aramis from his slumber. He must have fallen asleep briefly while watching after Porthos. He rubs his eyes with one hand as he drags his feet to the door to see who the visitors are.

Athos and D'Artagnan stand at the entrance. The lieutenant's mouth flattens into a thin line as he gets a good look at Aramis' disheveled form.

"You look like a mess," he comments in concern as he lets himself in with D'Artagnan following behind. Aramis rubs a hand down his face before raking his fingers through his hair.

"Has he awoken yet?"

Aramis shakes his head. "His fever has gone down, but not so sure about the infection," he comments as he starts to remove the bandages and poultice. He examines the wound, noting the swelling and redness has disappeared, leaving only the jagged edges of the hole. The medic lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

"Can one of you bring my needle and thread over so I can prepare him for stitching?" Aramis instructs as he disinfects the wound with some brandy before proceeding. He turns to take the expected needle and Athos hands it to him already threaded.

Aramis raises a brow at him in surprise. "I didn't know you were a medic as well," he remarks playfully.

A small smile tugs at the corner of the older musketeer's lips. "I know how to do more than just sword-fighting," he replies simply.

With the needle in hand, the medic sets out to sew together the torn skin, closing the gap made by the bullet. He pours more brandy over the stitches for good measure and dabs the skin dry before applying a good layer of salve upon the suture and wrapping Porthos' thigh in fresh bandages.

After doing so, Aramis slumps back onto the chair, sulking as he sinks into his seat with arms crossed over his chest.

"Hey, he'll be alright. You know how stubborn Porthos is," the voice comes from the Gascon with a gentle tone.

Aramis ignores his question and mutters the main thought that still journeys through his mind. "He could have gotten himself killed..."

D'Artagnan goes silent at the mentioning of the subject again. The atmosphere becomes solemn as the quiet spoken words hover around the musketeers, projecting their current equivalent thoughts. They all know the circumstances of the situation and it's not one that can be easily accepted, especially for Aramis.

Athos is the first to speak up, knowing it's inevitable to avoid discussing about this afternoon's event. "We would have had no other chance otherwise, Aramis."

The medic pounces up and has his hands curled around Athos' doublet in seconds. "Do you even care about Porthos?!" he growls through gritted teeth, staring with fury into Athos' eyes, searching for any hint of concern for his brother. The lieutenant remains still and seemingly unfazed by the attack. A sad expression crosses his face briefly before replying.

"I do care and I understand your anger, but Porthos isn't to blame," he takes a quick glance at the large musketeer. "He did what any of us would have done in that predicament, you know that," he tilts his chin down as he gazes at him through eyes that are genuine. Aramis wants to retort as his mind still broils with anger; unwilling to accept any explanations, but deep down he knows what Athos said is true. The emotions are overriding his senses, muddling his mind in seeing any logical reasoning.

But still... Despite knowing Porthos' intentions, he can't get past the thought of his brush in near death.

A gruff groaning sound halts their conversation before Aramis gets a chance to speak.

"Coull'd yuu guyyyss. . . ke'ep it doww'n? C'an't sleep. . . 'ike 'isss," Porthos slurs and elicits another groan at the growing awareness of a straining pain in his thigh.

Aramis twists his neck towards the large musketeer and calls out his name in unison with D'Artagnan. The medic releases his grip on Athos and crouches by Porthos' side.

"How are you feeling?" he asks even though the answer is clearly written on his face.

"Still 'urts... Feelin' 'ike it's burnin'," he mumbles as he reaches for the source of his pain, only to be stopped short by Aramis holding him back.

"I just stitched that together. Don't go messing with my handiwork," the medic warns.

Porthos huffs a small laugh at the comment. "Can you at least help me sit up? It's uncomfortable 'ike this," the large musketeer complains as he plants his elbows firmly onto the bed, trying to push himself up. The three rush to Porthos' aid and Aramis chastises him for moving without their ready assistance.

After they prop Porthos upright against the headboard, they sit back down in their respective chairs and an awkward silence ensues as they wonder how the delicate topic in mind should be approached.

Aramis rests his elbows on his knees and keeps his gaze averted from Porthos, showing that he doesn't want to hear the excuses for his actions. Despite avoiding eye contact, he knows the large musketeer is studying him and the marksman tries to keep his expression deadpan to avoid being read, but that tactic never works with Porthos. The man understands him too well and can see right through him, all the way to his thoughts and how he feels just based on his body language.

"I did it so you'd 'ave an opportuni'y," the large musketeer says suddenly, defending himself against Aramis' thoughts on the ordeal.

The medic twitches slightly as Porthos' words sparks his emotions back up. "An opportunity for what? To get yourself killed instantly?" Aramis snaps, knocking over his chair in the process of standing up briskly with clenched fists. D'Artagnan flinches from the abruptness while Athos remains aloof.

A serious expression crosses Porthos' face along with a flash of anger. "I wasn't gonna go down without at least takin' a chance," he growls.

"But so many things could have gone wrong with your plan!" the Gascon cries out in Aramis' defence as he walks toward the edge of the bed. "What if you were noticed? The man had you at gunpoint. He could have easily pulled the trigger on you yet you were still willing to attempt this risky act with such small odds of success?" his irritated face matching that of Aramis'.

"Odds don't mat'er. Not if you 'ave hope and determination in what you believe is right," Porthos affirms sternly, giving his usual arched brows along with a nod.

"That wasn't taking a chance. That was writing your death sentence," Aramis exclaims. "Do you think your life means nothing?" he leans in and hisses viciously on the last word.

A hand presses onto his chest and pushes him away from Porthos. "That's enough, Aramis," Athos growls, giving him a menacing glare that is more of a threat.

The room goes silent, all that's heard is the crackle of sparks that come from the fire in the hearth. The popping of the flame matches that of Aramis' frustration, sounding in small, quick bursts.

His eyes are still fixed on Porthos, but the hint of anger that was evident in the man's eyes earlier has simmered and in its place is a sense of sincerity.

"I would gladly sacrifice myself to protect your lives cause you're my brothers and I love you all," Porthos states, his tone genuine and endearing as he scans his eyes across his three brothers.

Aramis' shoulders start to relax and his fists unclench from its tense grip, knowing what Porthos says is the truth that his mind continually refuses to accept. "I love you too, mon ami," he responds with a ghost of a smile. "But dying won't keep us well mentally. Your death will do more harm than anything imaginable..." the words falter away. A sudden thought enters his stubborn mind and interrupts his sentence.

His true understanding of the large musketeer's intentions is buried in his mind and he knows fully well that this truth is being suppressed by his overpowering anger and fear. Accepting it despite the fact is much more difficult for him. He had nearly lost Porthos. But after hearing himself say how devastating the impact of Porthos' death would be brought in a thought he didn't consider into the light.

He didn't wonder how Porthos, Athos, and D'Artagnan would cope if he had willingly sacrificed himself for them. It wouldn't be any easier for his brothers to handle the grief than the way he would yet he'd commit the same act for the same reason as Porthos - cause he loves them.

The medic shuts his eyes momentarily before lifting his head up slowly as waves of sadness washes through him.

"I understand why you did it and I would do the same in a heartbeat, but..." he pauses, taking in a large breath through his nose. "I got overwhelmed," he rakes his fingers through his hair and tilts his head down. "Fear completely took over me and the anger fogged my vision," another pause. "I almost lost you there... I can't bare to live without you, Porthos. If you died..." he trails off and averts his gaze, not even able to and needing to finish the sentence for Porthos to understand. His eyes are on the verge of tears and he quickly blinks a few times to prevent them from spilling out.

Porthos grabs his hand and squeezes it gently before pulling him down so he is at the same height as his eyes. The medic keeps his head down, letting his bangs drape over his face to mask his expression, but Porthos brings his head back up so he's looking straight into his deep brown eyes.

"As difficul' as it is, we'll 'ave to learn how to live with it when it happens," Porthos' expression turns solemn and Aramis can tell how hard it is for him to say such a fact without imagining how he'd cope if he lost any of the them. "We'll all be gone at one poin'. When 'hat will happen we'll never know. Only God can determine when our time will come," he pauses to glance up towards the ceiling before continuing. "But otherwise, we keep fightin' for who we love and never give up no mat'er what. One thing I know for certain is 'hat when my time comes, God will choose to take me while I'm protectin' my family - my brothers," his eyes shine with a powerful flare of sincerity as he beams a smile.

All three Musketeers return the joyful gesture, their eyes meeting in a silent agreement.

Although, Aramis' smile disappears as quickly as it comes, turning into a grimace from the shiver that runs down his spine at the mere thought of when Porthos' time will come. The thought is daunting and Aramis wishes that that time will never come. But the large musketeer is stubborn and has trucked through much more than any other soldier he's ever seen. His qualities of dedication to protect and never give up are traits that has fueled the marksman's own strength and mindset for a long time. But there are higher powers that can't be overcome - even with such tenacious strength. Aramis unconsciously looks up to God in silence.

"I understand it's God's decision when we go, but I can't have Him take you," he starts, not being able to stop the quiver in his voice. "You mean so much to me. To all of us. More than you can ever imagine and I really thought we were going to lose you. In the snow. Lying limp and dead amongst other bodies..." the medic's voice becomes barely a whisper as a stray tear trails down his cheek.

Porthos' face immediately turns into one of sorrow, knowing the haunting memories that emerge with the sight; the images that have terrorized Aramis whenever sleep claims him. He reaches over and cups his palm around the medic's cheek, wiping away the tear with his thumb.

"Hey, I'm still here now. God didn't take me away meanin' he's watchin' out for ya," Porthos reassures, moving the hand up to comb back Aramis' hair with his fingers. "With 'hat in mind, I'm not goin' anytime soon nor do I plan to," he flashes him a gentle yet sincere smirk.

Aramis manages a small yet weary smile at being reminded of the fact that God is indeed watching over him since He answered his prayers. He kisses the cross around his neck and whispers copious words of thanks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Siege of Chartres in 1568 was a pivotal event that ended the Second War of Religion, an episode of the French Wars of Religion.
> 
> The Huguenots besieged the town at the end of February with 9,000 men and breached the north wall.
> 
> They assaulted the town in March, but the Royal garrison of Nicolas des Essars defended the town with the help of the inhabitants, resulting the assault to be rebelled and the breach sealed off; ending with the Huguenots failure to besiege the town completely.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Leave a comment and let me know your thoughts!


	4. Don't Leave Me

_The leader noticed and whistled._

_Two shots sounded in near unison._

_Then another came shortly after._

_One missed and two hit._

_My shot missed._

_Two bodies belonging to Athos and D'Artagnan crumble to the ground beside him. Aramis quickly turns to see crimson blood seep from the heads of their limp bodies. A fiery rage burns through him like wildfire, threatening to spread out of his body and destroy the whole forest with its fury._

_He hears a laugh come from the bandit and Aramis twists his head to see a wicked grin across his face and Porthos still held in his grasp. The man calls out to his two comrades, who are working on reloading their pistols, to stop and hold back._

_"It hurts, doesn't it? Watching your friends die one by one," his words laced in a malicious tone. "See what happens when you try to cheat death?" he raises his brows in contempt._

_"I will tear you apart piece by piece," Aramis growls viciously, putting every ounce of anger into his words._

_The man grins in wry amusement. "I don't think that's going to happen. I have the advantage here," he replies as he gestures to his other two friends."Now, you're probably wondering why I have spared you and your friend here," he tilts his chin down at Porthos. "Well, I want you to watch him die cause it seems this one means a lot to you," the man says as he taps Porthos' face with the side of his musket._

_Aramis glares burning daggers at the man. Everything is happening so quickly. His mind can't comprehend what just occured and how it happened. All he knows is that he messed it up and now Porthos is going to suffer the consequences._

_Porthos gazes at Aramis, his weary eyes are littered with despair and his face is fixed in a sad expression. Although not one that is in disappointment or sorrow, but one in relinquishment as if accepting his fate. It's a look that Aramis would never expect to see on his brother. This is not the Porthos he knows. He'd never give up, no matter what the circumstances._

_He failed Porthos._

_He failed them all._

_Aramis turns his head away. He can't bring himself to look at Porthos and see that despaired look again. To see that constant inextinguishable light of hope gone from his eyes._

_" 'Mis..." Porthos utters hoarsely._

_Aramis can't do it. He doesn't want to look up, but the call forces him to take a glance as it may be his last._

_Immediately, he wishes he didn't look._

_A small smile is now painted across Porthos' face, but the smile is not his usual. This is different. It's one speaking of farewell, displaying a gathering of all the memories they had together: all the laughs, jokes, adventures, their brotherly bond, friendship, their undying loyalties to each other._

_Everything. All encased and shown in that lone smile. It's the one expression Aramis never wanted to see and hoped he never would. The gesture destroys him and he feels as if his heart is being forcibly ripped out and stabbed by thousands of needles multiple times._

_The man notices the desperation plastered on Aramis' face and smiles wickedly._

_"No!" Aramis yells, charging towards the man before a gunshot rings throughout the forest and his brother's limp body falls into the snow._

\----------

"No! . . . Porthos!" Aramis shouts as the sound of the musket firing jolts him awake. He hastily stoops to the ground, his gaze fixed to the floor with eyes frozen in fear. Panic races through his mind as he desperately grabs at Porthos' body lying on the ground. "Please! God no . . . "

He flinches when a hand grips his arm and tries to pull him up. "Get away from me, bastardo!" Aramis growls viciously, forcefully ripping the hand off him and struggling to break free when another hand holds him. He twists his head up to scowl at the source of restraint.

" 'Mis! 's okay! It's me, Porthos," the figure shouts, shaking his shoulders frantically.

Aramis halts and doesn't speak. All he does is stare at the man in front of him with his mouth agape, his expression fixed in one of incredulity as thoughts race through his mind.

_This man... he looks like Porthos. But that can't be him. Porthos is dead. I saw him die. Right before my eyes. There's no way. This can't be real. It's a lie. This has to be a figment of my own imagination,_ he thought.

"You can't be Porthos . . . I saw him die. . !" he retorts angrily.

"Aramis! You just had a bad dream. I'm not dead. I'm here and alive," the man yells.

The marksman shakes his head, placing both hands over his face before dragging them down. He doesn't know what's real or not anymore. The figure protests he's present and alive, but is he really? Aramis rubs his eyes roughly and looks at the man again.

He's still there.

With trembling arms, he reaches out and gropes the man's head, trying to determine if this person before him is authentic.

He can feel patterns of curly hair as he runs his fingers through it, the thick strands brushing across his hand. Moving down to the man's face, he follows the trail of a scar down the left eye with his thumb; stroking past the cheek and reaching a black, gruff beard that wraps around the lips and jaw. A tickling sensation runs through his palm as he drags his hand down the untrimmed mane. It all looks and feels so real.

"It's not possible... It has to be a lie..." he says, his voice quivering and broken.

The man takes hold of Aramis' hands and brings them down into his own while squeezing gently.

"This isn't a hallucination. I'm really here, 'Mis," he replies reassuringly as he rubs a thumb over his hand. The contact sends a tingle up through his body.

"The bandit. . . he shot you. . . I saw you. . . Lying limp in the snow. . ." he sputters, still blinking in disbelief.

"René..." the figure says before his fingers wrap itself around Aramis' wrist and his hand is guided up against the man's chest. A consistent beat thrums underneath his palm. With his mouth slightly open, he looks up at him through hopeful eyes. Can it really be?

The large man presses his own hand firmly on top of his; the pulse becomes even more prominent and the warmth of the palm is radiating. He shoots him a beaming smile, one that causes slight wrinkles to appear at the edge of his eyes and his cheeks to puff up. Just like Porthos' usual smile.

Tears trail down Aramis' cheeks before he launches himself around Porthos' neck, embracing him tightly as if he would float away and disappear if he didn't. His brother's hand ruffles through his hair as the other rubs small circles on his back. Aramis twists his head and buries himself into Porthos' dark curls.

"The visions... Everything felt so real..." he croaks, choking back a weak sob. Porthos' hand travels up from his back and wraps around the back of his head.

"Shh, 's alright. 'm here," he whispers reassuringly, planting a kiss to the side of Aramis' head. "No harm will come to me or you."

A few minutes pass and Aramis still has his brother in his arms, holding on for dear life as Porthos calms his overwhelmed mind.

"Those nightmares ain't real and they never will be. They're only illusions created by your mind," he pats the marksman's back gently in consistent rhythm like one would with a child.

With arms still gripped around him, he leans back enough to see Porthos' chest, watching the slow rise and fall with each breath. "You were so close though. So close to death in reality," Aramis pauses, lowering his head. "Please... don't leave me," his voice is quiet and begging. "I can't handle it..." he trails off as more tears start to flow out. Porthos rubs his thumb across the corner of his eyes, cleaning the new tears that appear and kisses his forehead.

"I won't leave you. I never want to," he tucks a hand under Aramis' chin and brings it up. A cheerless expression crosses Porthos' face, his mouth curling down into a frown as he huffs a sad sigh. "But you 'ave to acknowledge 'hat I can't control death," he encloses his hand around Aramis' nape. The medic looks down, staring at the bed through glassy eyes and lets the truth of his words sink in.

He's aware that the task he asks of him is impossible, but he wishes Porthos and his brothers can stay with him forever. To never let anything separate The Inseparables. Not even death. As much as he wants everything to be perpetual, life doesn't work that way. All things come to an end.

After a brief silence between the two, the marksman eventually nods quietly in understanding before resting himself back onto Porthos' shoulder, not wanting to think about the possible future that is in store for them.

Suddenly, Aramis pulls away and darts his eyes around the room in panic when he realises his other two brothers are not present.

"Where's Athos and D'Artagnan?" he inquires in a fearful voice, turning his head frantically in search for the two. "They're not..." his heart lodges up his throat at the imaginary possibility.

Porthos quickly squeezes his arm to soothe his worries. "Athos and D'Artagnan are here, safe and well. I told 'hem to go get some rest. They'll be grabbing dinner from downstairs right about now. Should be back soon," he assures, rubbing Aramis' arm to ease his tension.

Not a minute later, the door swings open and the two mentioned brothers stroll in, each with two bowls in hand.

"Food has arrived," D'Artagnan announces with a big smile as he enters, placing the food onto the table.

"I apologise we're late. There were some complications in the kitchen," the lieutenant explains. Athos goes to place his portions down and speaks without turning. "And Aramis, it seems you're awak-" he's abruptly cut off by a large hug from behind. He gasps from the sudden gesture and the tackle bumps his body forward causing him to nearly spill the stew everywhere. The man puts the bowls down as he stands awkwardly in Aramis' embrace.

"Did we... miss something?" Athos inquires, giving Porthos his usual raised brow as the man snickers at the lieutenant's near spillage. The medic lets go of him and transfers the same hug to D'Artagnan who pats him gently on the back with knitted brows of concern.

Once Aramis retracts his embrace, he plants a trembling hand on each of their chests, needing confirmation for his other two brothers as well to give his mind peace.

A steady beat pulsates through his fingers under both hands and he lets out a long breath of relief as the waves of fear that rolled in his stomach ceases.

"You're both alive too..." he whispers, tilting his head up to look at Athos and D'Artagnan. His eyes glimmering with flowing comfort and satisfaction.

The young musketeer's eyes darken with worry, his lips taut and shoulders tense. Athos' expression reveals no emotions, but the slight crinkle of his brows is enough for him to discern the man's concern. The Gascon encloses his fingers around Aramis' wrist - whose hand is still pressed upon his chest - and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"Are you okay, Aramis? What happened?" he cocks his head and steps forward to console him.

The marksman squints, shaking his head to banish the re-emerging images of his brother's dead bodies and completely ignores D'Artagnan's question.

Athos studies him intently through the dull gaze, one which is obvious that the lieutenant has already accounted the meaning of Aramis' actions.

His nightmare episodes are not unknown by his brothers. Over time, they've learned to decipher what's haunting him through his behaviour. It's no question Athos would quickly recognise his state of mind.

Athos gently removes the hand from his own chest and brings him into a hug, patting his back in comfort. "Aramis, we'll always be here with you. We're not going to leave, no matter what the images your mind concocted tells you," he pulls away, giving him an amiable smile.

Slowly catching up with what's going on, D'Artagnan latches onto Aramis from the side. "All for one and one for all, remember?" he tilts his head at him with a boyish smile.

"Don't you ever think we'll abandon 'hat motto," a voice adds from behind.

Aramis sweeps his eyes across his brothers and comes to a stop at Porthos who has a sincere grin plastered on his face. He responds with a large smile, grateful for his brother's support and assurance. "I don't doubt any of you," Aramis replies genuinely while lifting his chin. "Just don't go throwing yourself into death's arms like that again," his smile quickly turning serious. He twists his head back to Athos and D'Artagnan, scanning a pointed finger at them. "And that includes you two as well," he adds sharply with arched brows.

A playful smile tugs at Athos' lips, unable to feel at least slightly amused by Aramis' request. "I can't guarantee that, but we'll try our best not to."

"Well... so far we've always escaped death somehow," the Gascon quips with a raised brow and a hand placed on his hips. "Aren't we a stubborn bunch?"

A booming laugh comes from the dark-skinned musketeer as he wiggles a finger towards him. "We certainly are, pup. We should 'ave been dead ages ago."

"The fact that we aren't means our duty here isn't done yet," Athos affirms, draping an arm over Aramis' shoulder. "Musketeers don't die easily, you know."

Aramis can't help but grin at the uncanny truth as he directs his gaze up to God while cradling the cross necklace in his fist. "God is definitely watching over us and I'm blessed that He believes we are still needed in this world."

_We are extremely lucky to be alive, despite having many close calls with death. Our duties as The King's Musketeers is our life and knowing God believes we are still meant to be carrying this loyalty to France is a blessing,_ Aramis thought.

"So... rather than talkin' about death, can we eat now? 'm gettin' hungry and 'hat stew over there smells delicious," Porthos whines eagerly as he tilts his chin towards the table, breaking Aramis' train of thought.

The young Gascon breaks into a mirthful laugh at the musketeer's craving. "Is food all that you think about, Porthos?"

The remark receives a vexing glare from the big man. "Oi, I 'aven't eaten since this mornin'. Gimme a break." He points an impatient finger towards the table. "Now hand me the bowl."

D'Artagnan barks another laugh and raises his hands in surrender as he goes to retrieve a bowl, handing it over to Porthos - only to retract his arm before he gets a hold of it.

The act brings about a small smile on Athos' face, amused by the cheeky Gascon's teasing and the large musketeer's angry huffs and threats.

Waves of happiness surges through Aramis as he watches D'Artagnan continue to tease Porthos - who is now also trying to spoon-feed the grumpy musketeer that argues a leg injury doesn't affect his ability to feed himself. Athos - who has joined in on this parade - nonchalantly taunts Porthos by eating his stew in front of him.

A permanent smile is now etched on Aramis' face where not long ago it was sketched in a frown. The sight of happiness and safety amongst his brothers releases the tight grip that strained his heart. The raging storm of emotions having been brought to peace by the comforting words of reassurance and support. He basks in this moment of playfulness between his brothers, seeing them all together and hearing them laugh brings about a sense of relief that allows his heart to breathe again.

This brotherly bond is what keeps him intact, grounded. They've become so devoted and dependent on each other's company, in work or play. It's a connection unlike any other and through it they are bound by loyalty, honour, and friendship. This bond he has with these three men - who are his brothers in every manner but blood - is a true blessing and it's something he never wants to lose.

"Aramis if you ain't gonna eat your stew 'hen I'll see it as an invitation 'hat I can 'ave it," Porthos warns, tilting forward his empty bowl to show his desire for more food.

The marksman gives a ghost of a smile along with an uncaring shrug as he strides over to get his bowl before sitting himself down in the chair by his bed. He passes it to Porthos' impatient hands, only for him to fall short of obtaining it when Aramis pulls away like D'Artagnan did.

"How 'ave I managed to deal with you guys for this long?" Porthos questions, rolling his eyes as he tilts his head up in annoyance, bringing about a round of laughter from the three brothers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thank you for reading my first series! I can't stress enough how much it means to me for those of you that came to read my story. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
> 
> Leave a comment and let me know your thoughts!


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